White Cross in a Poppy Field
by Eleora
Summary: There was so much that could be said, so many questions to be askedbut there was only one question that had haunted him day after day, night after night, searing itself into his soul and binding all the hurt, pain, regret and betrayal. Why?


White Cross and a Poppy Field

It was a hard day for a battle, a cruel day. The sun shone brightly in the sky above, reaching down to tainted Earth and caressing it with brilliant rays of light. A soft wind danced through the air, ruffling his hair and bringing with it the smell of newly-awakened spring. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, drinking in the scent of life. It was the perfect day--a day for laughing, for running, for rejoicing—not bloodshed and tears.

Killing, fighting, battling, cursing—were they not wrong enough already? That such a perfect day, such an _innocent_ day should witness such things made them all the worse. He hated them all-- for tainting not only a perfect day, but for stripping the innocence from so many other things as well. But most of all, he hated the one man he would face today. One, whom he had once trusted, depended upon: been betrayed by.

Innocence and trust, shattered in one blow.

"Sir," a voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned around, opening his eyes and straightening from his former slump. "Sir, it's begun—down near Mason's Point. I've already alerted the others, as planned."

So this was it, the beginning of the end. Once he stepped on that field, he would never be returning. A faint, wry smile crossed his lips, though his eyes bore sadness and regret, not cheer. Mason's Point—an aptly picked spot for their deciding battle. It was a place that held much significance to their former friendship—a place of beginnings that would now be one of endings.

It was coming full circle; all that remained was to see whose death would seal the ring.

"Sir?" the cautious voice interrupted his thoughts.

"We will carry out as planned. Thank you for informing me." He spoke briskly, his voice brittle and cold. There was no time, no energy to be kind.

He glanced once more at the perfect sky, wished one last time that things had been different, said one last goodbye to the life he had dreamed of, but would never attain.

And with a silent salute to days long gone, he apparated to the field of battle.

Utter chaos met him, as colours leapt across the field in arches, zig-zags, straight lines and circles, leaving destruction in their wake. All around him were the screams of the dying, and the sickeningly coppery scent of blood tainted the fresh spring air.

Mechanically, he lifted his wand. Everything inside him cried out against the destruction, the pain, the loss of life that he would inflict. Hating the words, hating the intent, he uttered a curse and watched grimly as it hit. There was no joy in suffering, no jubilation in killing. There was only a certain wistful regret, a sad voice crying out _"If only, if only things had not turned out this way. If only the night had not fallen so soon."_

His mind became curiously detached from his body, until it seemed he was merely a spectator in this body, only watching as death after death was with his wand. He remembered a time when he was younger--when things were simpler and untainted—remembered how it felt to dance, and saw that he was truly dancing now. A dangerous dance, a dance with death.

"_Take my hand_." It whispered, seducing him so easily with its careless power, _"Take my hand and I will lead you. Let me guide your hand and mind."_ And he danced as never before, with a grace born of desperation. Across the field he spun and glided, dealing out death to those who crossed his path.

And with every death he caused, something inside him died. He forced himself to remember their faces, to see their eyes glaze over, to imprint the cost of war forever on his mind.

Voices cried out to him, begging him for mercy, crying out at the injustices that had been given them—and still he killed, every face, every bit of suffering that he caused searing itself into the very fibre of his being. A shout behind him interrupted his revere, as his wand was snatched out of his grasp.

"Hello, old friend." The voice stopped him cold, and as all other noise faded into the background, he turned to greet the man whose betrayal had cut so deep.

"Hello." He returned the greeting, softly. For now they would pretend, just for a few moments. They would smile and remember times distant, faint memories of a brighter, more innocent time. His eyes softened as they ran over the familiar face, surprised at how little had changed. Same boyish charm, same handsome grin, same warm eyes.

Same lies.

There was so much that could be said, so many hateful words that could be exchanged, so many questions to be asked, now at the end—but there was only one question that had haunted him day after day, night after night, searing itself into his soul and binding all the hurt, pain, regret, betrayal and _loss_.

"Why?"

The man sighed, glancing across the field with eyes that registered none of the chaos that surrounded the pair. "Because, there are some things, that cannot be stopped." He spoke softly, the words a faint whisper on the warm breeze, carrying with them the faint hint of wistful regret. "Some things that must be done, must be fulfilled, must be carried out."

"You truly think so." He spoke bleakly, without hope.

"I do. It's something you never understood, and still cannot understand. You have never felt what I have, experienced what it feels like to truly know the world, to see how simple it really is."

Hope surged within him—perhaps, there was still a chance he could be swayed, even now, on the brink of destruction.

"You have never known true power as I have. Yet I offer you a chance, here at the end. We were once friends, brothers. We were there for each other when there was no one else; we fought side-by-side, bled side-by-side—would you throw that away, trample it in the dust?" There was desperation in his voice; raw emotion flickered in his eyes. Black and White were no longer so definite, as the edges of reason began to blur.

"I cannot. But one thing I wish, to be brothers still."

Understanding mingled with grief flashed briefly in his eyes--a last goodbye--quickly overwhelmed by the all-consuming hatred that arose. Confusion, madness, loss, fury swept across his face in a heartbreaking display and he slowly, shakily raised his wand.

"Goodbye." A faint whisper, followed by a hoarsely screamed curse, and then he was falling, screaming as white-hot tendrils of pain danced eagerly through his body. Eons of time passed before he managed to surface above the roiling tide of pain, briefly, and focus on his murderer.

And staring into the face of evil, he saw himself. He saw all the lies he had been told, and all the deceit. He saw the awful, burning loneliness, the all-consuming pain that was mirrored in his own eyes. He saw loved ones lost, innocence killed, childhood stripped away. He saw through the burning hatred, and found himself.

And somehow, through the mist that cloaked his vision, the fire that seared through him with every breath, the acrid taste on his tongue, he found strength. The world was suddenly so simple. His eyes drifted away from the face of his murderer, drinking in all the sights and sounds around him, the sun, the clouds, the wind—life. He did not see his comrades falling to the ground, hit by fatal curses. He did not hear the tortured screams of the dying. He did not feel the ground slick with blood beneath him. He did not taste the coppery blood in his mouth, nor hear his rasping breath.

He saw only a field of poppies, waving gently, vibrantly in the midsummer's breeze. A field of choice, a memoir of love, a final tribute to the fallen. And there, standing in the middle was a cross. A smile crossed his face and a last sigh graced his lips as he read the inscription on it. He was finally home.

_IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow  
Between the crosses row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with us who die  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields._

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**Well. I'm not too impressed with this fic myself, but the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone until I had finished writing it. Therefore, it is. However terrible it might have been, I would still imensely appreciate it if you took the time to drop a review, even if its just to confirm my opinions of this fic. Your reviews mean the world to me (or at least, the HP world)!**


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